Stories of Selma Lagerlöf's translated in irregular instalments.
Once, as a child, I travelled past an old manor, where there was known to be a house troll. The estate was very isolated and ugly on a bare lake shore. There was no garden around the high white manor house, just a couple of untrimmed trees. It was the saddest place I ever saw. But it looked prosperous. The outhouses were large and well built, while the crops stood so thick in the fields that I can see them still today.
The most astonishing thing was the neatness everywhere. I remember that we drove slowly past the estate to see how well the ditches had been dug, how straight the roads were, and how solidly the bridges were built. We noticed the pretty painted boats that rocked by the shore, and an extraordinarily long washing jetty that ran straight out into the lake. “It must be the house troll who wants to them rinse their clothes out in the really deep water and not in the shallows by the shore”, we said.
There was no one who doubted that everything was the way it was on that estate for the sake of the house troll, nor that the people who lived there believed in him. It was for fear of the house troll that niether twig nor straw might blemish the yard, that the barn was polished like an ornament, and the fields were like flowerbeds.
The house troll had been there since the beginning, and since the beginning there had been stories told about him. Here I will tell you one of them, which was supposed to have happened about two hundred years ago.
In the dark of an autumn night, rain poured down the gray wooden walls, for in those days the manor house was neither painted nor faced with planks, and there was a wind which grabbed the branches of the wild apple tree that stood by the eaves and beat them against the roof.
An owl came buffeted on the worst of the storm. She had her nest in under the beams of one of the great attics, usually flew in through a crack under the roof. But before she could find the opening the wind grabbed her, fluffed up her coat of feathers till she looked like a little round ball, and banged her against the side of the house a couple of times. The she abandoned her attempts to come in, and perched in stead in the wild apple tree, where she shrieked all night long.
Inside the building it was very quiet and still, but from the light which slipped out through the cracks in the shutters it was clear that the inhabitants were still up. Now and again came bursts of shouting and loud laughter then it would be quiet as a grave once more.
Around eleven the old housekeeper came out unto the entry hall. She was wearing her outdoor clothes, and at her side were the keys that she kept with her day and night. The heavy door was shut with four different locks, and it was long before the old woman could open it. As soon as she had the door ajar, the wind took its chance, slammed the door open against the wall, throw a bucket of rain in her face, and spun around among the rag rugs on the floor so that they writhed like snakes.
The old woman hauled shut the door after her, and staggered out into the night. She walked quickly, as if pursued by some great terror, and muttered, over and over, “Lord preserve us!” “Lord preserve us!”
She lit her way with a horn lantern, but she was was so preoccupied with her terrifying thoughts that she ignored what the lantern showed her, and splashed through puddles she could easily have avoided. Again and again, i her confusion, she turned off the beaten path and climbed a bank of lawn to a thorny hedge, which tore her clothes. She seemed not to notice any of this. She rushed uninterruptedly onwards, still muttering “Lord preserve us!” “Lord preserve us!”
At least she reached the stable block. He climbed to stairs to the loft, which clung, narrow, and frail, to the outside of the building, and stopped at the entrance to the hayloft. There was a glimmer of light inside the door, and as the housekeeper leaned forward, she could see into a little room, whose walls were hung with reins and bridles, saddles and girths. It wasn’t really a room at all: just an alcove off the hayloft. The hay bulged in through gaps in the sparse plank partition and in the middle of the floor was a large open trapdoor to the stables. On a bed in a corner sat the old coachman. He held a taper up s he could read God’s word. He sat there, as if the storm were too noisy to sleep in. He kept raising his head from the book to listen to the storm, the rain, and the shrieking of the owl.
When the housekeeper knocked at the door the coachman opened it for her. He started at once to apologise for sitting with a naked flame in the hayloft. He seemed to think that she had walked out in the dark must to beg him to be more careful with the taper. “I know it’s dangerous”, he said, “but I thought that someone had to be reading the Word of God tonight.”
The old woman didn’t answer this. She sat down on a chest that was full of bits of leather and scrap iron. She was still in such a state that her hands tugged constantly at her apron and her lips moved in an incomprehensible muttering.
The Coachman sat and watched her until the fear that weighed her down had communicated itself to him. His old exhausted hands began to shake, and his toothless jaws to rattle together.
“Have you met the Old Father?” he whispered.
The Old Father was the house troll. He was never called anything else on the estate.
“No”, said the old woman, “And I wouldn’t be afraid of the old father either. He only means us well.”
“You don’t want to be too certain of that” said the coachman. “He is a hard master, and there have been many things on the estate recently that he has not liked.”
“If he were as strict as you say, he would never have let the Captain go as far as he has.”
The coachman tried to calm her. “Remember that you are talking about the Lord of the Manor.”
“That’s no reason for me not to see that he is destroying himself and the estate!” she said.
“It is the Captain who is the Lord of the Manor. We are just his poor servants.” the coachman repeated earnestly. But his mood changed suddenly, and he asked. “Has he found some new lunacy?”
“I have been standing behind the door to the gaming room all evening, and heard how he has gambled away all his money,” said the housekeepr. While she sat and rocked her whole body back and forth. “When he had run out of money, he gambled away horses and cows. When he had run out of livestock, he started to lose the estate. He bets village after village, woodland after woodland, meadow after meadow, field after field, and he loses them all.”
The coachman half rose from his seat when he heard this, as if he wanted to rush out and prevent the whole catastrophe. But he sat down again, powerless. “It is the Captain who is the master here.” he said: “He can do what he likes with whatever he owns. But I don’t understand that the Old Father has not interfered with the game.”
“He always stays out here in the stable; he won’t know what’s going on in the house.” said the housekeeper.
The was a long silence in the hayloft. At last the coachman asked, “Who is it gambling with him tonight”
“Captain Duwe, a man who has only to touch the dice to win.”
“There’s a man whose purse is as empty as his heart” said the coachman thoughtfully. The Captain can expect no mercy.”
“Right now, he owns all of Töreby” said the housekeeper.
The coachman picked up the Bible, turned it to catch the light, and started to read.
“I thought I would lose my mind, when I was standing, listening to them” said the housekeeper. “It was so terrible. At first they were cheerful, and the master laughed at all his losses. But now they are silent, except when the Captain has lost another field. Then he swears, and the other one laughs.”
The old coachman muttered as he read, but his words didn’t come from any Bible. All that his trembling lips could manage were “Village after village, woodland after woodland, meadow after meadow, field after field.”
“What use is your reading?” asked the housekeeper. “If you were a real man you’d go in there and make him stop, by hook or by crook, before he gambled away the whole estate. “
“I have worked here for long enough to know how hard it is to rein in Silfverbrandt when he has put his heart into something. I might just as well try to raise a dead man from the grave.”
“Yes, well this should be enough to raise his father and mother from the ground.” said the housekeeper.
The coachman shut his book. “The worst thing is that he doesn’t understand that he can’t do this. I can’t remember all the times I told his departed father, “Don’t give Töreby to Henrik” I would say, “He will never be the kind of master the Old Father wants. Leave it to his brother, who is decent and serious, and leave Master Henrik an estate which doesn’t carry this responsibility.”
“Yes, well, now Töreby won’t go to either Mr Henrik or Mr August. Now it will go to that Captain Duwe, until he gambles it away to someone else.
The coachman stood up decisively. It was obvious that he meant to go and talk to the lord of the manor, But when he lifted his taper, it came into a position where it illuminated the square trapdoor through which he would climb down to the stables; and now both the coachman and the housekeeper say that there was a a house troll on the ladder which rose through the opening. He stood on the top rung of the ladder; he was short and grey, and wore knee breeches and a grey jacket with silver buttons. He listened in such shock and bewilderment that he seemed to have been frozen to the spot.
The coachman and the housekeeper dropped their eyes at once. Neither of them allowed their expression or manner to betray that they had seen the house troll.
“Yes, I think the best thing is for us old people to go to bed”, said the coachman in a tone he tried to keep unconcerned. You know that on this estate we don’t have to wait up in case of accidents. Here, there is always someone who watches over things.
“Yes, you are right. There is someone here who watches over us.” said the housekeeper humbly. Without another word, she took her lantern from the floor, crept out through the side door, and disappeared down the staircase.
When the old woman returned to the house, she had made her mind up to go to bed at once, since there was nothing that angered the house troll more than people sitting up late at night without a good reason. And she thought that he would certainly set everything right now that he had heard what was going on. But she hadn’t taken off more than her heavy ring of keys when she wanted so badly to know the score between the gamblers that she sneaked off once more to the door of their chamber.
When she bent down and put her eye to the keyhole, she saw that Captain Silfverbrandt and Captain Duwe were still at the green baize table. Her master looked completely ruined. No longer was he handsome, nor young. His swagger had gone. He sat pale and broken, with bags under his eyes, wrinkles along his forehead. His hands shook. Duwe was red in the face, and his bloodshot eyes bulged from his face, but he hid his excitement beneath good humoured talk and continuous laughter.
The housekeeper had listened at the door for a couple of minutes when Silfverbrandt pushed his chair back and cried. “That’s it. Duwe. Now I have nothing left of the whole estate but the islet where one spruce tree grows out there in the lake. You have to let me keep that, so that there is one place left on earth that I can call my own.
Duwe laughed but he didn’t seem happy. “It’s a shame to stop playing,” he said. “Since you have bet on everything else, you might as well let us play for that pile of rock in the lake.”
Silfverbrandt paced the length of the room. She could see he was in the grip of gambling fever. He wasn’t so much upset by his losses. He was grieving that he had no way to keep playing.
“What will you bet against the island?” he asked. Duwe considered for a moment. The housekeeper understood that he was looking for a stake that would compel Silfverbrandt to bet again.
“I’ll put up your charger.” He said.
Silfverbrandt loved that horse more than anything else in the world. He started to swear the most dreadful oaths. He asked Duwe whether he was not the Evil One himself, to tempt him so terribly.
The housekeeper could see that every time Silfverbrandt’s pacing took him to a dark corner of the room, where Duwe could not see him, he would clench his fists in anger.
“The terrible thing is that I know I will kill you if ever I see you riding my charger and possessing my estate.” he said to Duwe.
“Can’t you let a poor man have a little comfort in his old age?”asked Duwe, ad laughed. “You’re young and strong. You’ll get yourself a new horse and even a new estate somewhere else, soon enough.”
All the time the housekeeper had watched, bent over, at her keyhole, she had been wondering what was happening at the other door of the room, which led to the outer hall. Again and again it would open a little, and then be closed once more. But every time Silfverbrandt walked past, it looked as if a little hand appeared in the entrance and beckoned to him.
He paced past the door many times without seeming to notice anything, but then he paused, and stared at it.
“Well? Are you coming?” called Duwe.
“I’ll be back in a second”, said Silfverbrandt, and slipped through the doorway to the outer hall.
The housekeeper, silent as a flickering shadow, left the door to the gambling room and passed into the larder, where she stood with her nose pressed against the little window which opened on the hall.
There stood Silfverbrandt bent over the house troll. The Old Father held a little lantern, which cast a faint light in the dark hall.
“What will you give me, if I arrange for you to win back the estate?” he asked/
“I will give you whatever you want” said Silfverbrandt.
The house troll dig in his pocket and pulled out a pair of dice. “If I lend you these dice, and you play with them tonight, I’m sire that you’ll win back the estate.”
Silfverbrandt stretched out his hand. “Give me! Gimme!” he said.
“You can have them on one condition,” said the troll: “tomorrow you must play a game with me, for a stake that I will decide.”
Just then the poor owl screeched: Silfverbrandt startled at the loud and ghastly noise, and waited like a nervous horse for more.
The old housekeeper saw the house troll’s eyes glitter with hatred and spite. She wanted to break the window glass and call out to her master to be careful, and not to pledge anything – but before she could move, the house troll looked up at her with a glare so terrible that she dared not even shiver.
But even Silfverbrandt seemed to have glimpsed something dreadful in the house troll. He withdrew his hand and was about to return to the gambling room when he paused again.
“I don’t know why I should think you evil, Old Father, when you have always cared so much for the estate,” he said. “You can’t wish me any harm. So give me the dice. In the morning, we’ll do whatever you want, if only I can make sure, tonight, that Duwe ends up just as poor as he was when he walked into this hall yesterday evening.”
The next moment, he was back in the main room.
“I’m not sitting here any longer, listening to the owl screeching, without gambling at all”, said Duwe. “I’m going to bed.”
“Asren’t you going to win that little island with the spruce tree off me first?” said Silfverbrandt as he sat down to the table. He took up the little dice cup and shook it once more. They played round after round, and this time, Silfverbrandt won every time. While they played, the storm died down, the owl returned to her nest, and old housekeeper, exhausted, staggered off to bed, but Silfverbrandt didn’t rest until he had won back field after field, meadow after meadow, woodland after woodland, and village after village, until at last the whole of Töreby estate belonged to him again.
It was a beautiful morning when the storm had passed away: a domed blue sky, crisp autumn air, and the lake as clear and smooth as glass. The old housekeeper was summoned to her master before he had risen
When she opened the door of his bedchamber, she thought she saw something small and grey hurrying past. She only glimpsed enough to shudder away from it. Then it was gone.
Captain Silfverbrandt lay very pale, huddled into one corner of the bed. “Did you see him?” he asked.
“No”, said the housekeeper, as she always would. It was not right to admit one had ever seen the house troll. He wasn’t supposed to approve.
“It was the Old Father”, said the Captain. “He left just as you came in,,l He had been here, and diced with me. “
The housekeeper just stood and started at the lord of the manor.
“The Old Father isn’t very happy with me” said the Captain, “He would prefer that my brother took over the estate. Perhaps the servants would prefer this too.”
The Captain looked far beyond her as he said this. The old woman did not know how to reply. He continued, sounding almost calm.
“Well, I got old Duwe out of the estate in the end. I had thought I would thank the Old Father for his help by restoring the estate the way he wants it, but he doesn’t really trust me. He makes the strangest bets ... He’s worse than Duwe, you know.”
The housekeeper began to tremble and mutter as she had in the night “Lord preserve us!”
“Don’t stand there faffing around, woman” said Silfverbrandt. “Get a move on and bring me my uniform. Make sure it’s sparkling clean, with all the buttons polished and the facings shining. I want boots I can see my face in. Then bring my charger, in his best harness. The mane must be combed out; the stirrups must glitter, and the reins be polished.”
The housekeeper watched him, astonished, for a moment. Then she left, and returned almost at once with his dress uniform. On an estate like Töreby there was no question but that everything was kept up with spit and polish.
So Captain Silfverbrandt arose, and put on his blue uniform, with a three cornered hat, hung his sabre by his side, and drew on his long stiff gauntlets. He marched out onto the porch and mounted his charger, which was waiting, saddled and bridled, at his door.
Twice round the manor house he rode; and then he turned away, down to the lake, where, even in those days, the long jetty for washing clothes stretched out into the depths. He made such a splendid sight that all the servants came out to watch. Only the coachman and the housekeeper saw – but they saw it clearly – that the house troll leaned out of the hayloft and watched the lord of the manor ride.
When the Captain reached the shore of the lake, he turned out onto the long jetty. He sat as straight and proud as any captain of the hussars, and his charger walked with light, dancing steps. When they had ridden right to the end of the jetty, there was a brief disagreement between horse and rider. The horse wanted to turn, but captain Silfverbrandt used willpower, whip and spurs. The horse gave one huge jump into the water.
Everyone who had been watching from the yard came rushing down to the shore. But when they reached it, both horse and rider had disappeared. They had gone straight to the bottom, and never returned to the surface.
The young men took boats and rowed out across the lake. They all talked at once. Everyone knew what had to be done, though no one agreed with his neighbour. Only the old housekeeper kept her peace. “Nothing will help” she said quietly. “It is the house troll. The captain lost his life in the game they played this morning, as the stake for the help he had last night.”
When the men of the estate returned from the lake, shocked and frightened, the house troll made himself visible to everyone, where he stood in the opening to the hay loft, a little grey man waving his bright red cap in triumph. He knew now that sobriety, and discipline would return to Töreby.